Yesterday You Said Tomorrow

I was folding laundry last night—half-watching an old movie, half-listening to the rain tapping against the kitchen window—when I found a T-shirt I used to wear to the gym. It’s soft now, thinned out from too many washes. The logo’s faded. Still smells faintly like sweat and ambition.

I held it for a second longer than usual. Thought about the last time I wore it. Thought about how I was going to get back in shape. How I’d start next Monday. How I’d stop eating junk, start sleeping better, stop letting the day win.

That was a few months ago.

Maybe more.

There’s a Post-it note on my fridge that says “Run tomorrow.” It’s been there so long it’s started to curl at the edges. I wrote it with good intentions. But somehow, every day, the world gave me a reason not to. Too tired. Too much to do. Too many dishes. Too many headlines screaming disaster.

It’s hard to make yourself better when the world feels like it’s falling apart.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? The world’s always falling apart. And we keep waking up anyway.

I’ve been carrying around a quiet kind of despair lately. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a heaviness behind the eyes. A sense that maybe I’ve already missed too many chances. That maybe the better version of me already came and went while I was scrolling on my phone or waiting for the coffee to finish brewing.

There’s a part of me that misses who I used to be. Younger, more certain. Quicker to run toward hard things. I used to believe that life would reward effort. That if you worked hard, kept your word, showed up on time—good things would follow.

These days, I’m not so sure.

I’ve seen too many people do everything right and still lose. Seen folks pray every night and still get sick. Seen the kindest ones buried too young. And sometimes I wonder—what’s the point of trying to improve when so much is out of our hands?

But then I see my boys.

The older one asked me last week why I don’t play soccer as much anymore. “You were fast,” he said. “I saw the video.”

I laughed, but it caught something in me.

I wanted to tell him that my knees hurt, that my schedule’s full, that it’s hard to find the time. But really, it’s not about time. It’s about inertia. Once you stop for long enough, starting again feels impossible.

And yet—he asked. That matters.

Kids don’t care if you’re the best. They just want to see you try. They want to see you run, even if you get winded. They want to know you haven’t given up on yourself, because they’re learning whether or not they should give up on themselves.

That’s when it hit me.

Improving myself isn’t about six-packs or self-help podcasts. It’s not about fixing everything all at once.

It’s about being someone my sons can look at and say, “He didn’t quit.”

Even when the world was heavy. Even when he had every excuse. He got up. He tried.

So I went for a run this morning.

Not far. Not fast. My legs ached. My breath was embarrassingly loud. But I did it. A couple of loops around the block. One act of resistance against the slow erosion of will.

I came home, poured a glass of water, and didn’t say anything to the kids about it. But they noticed. The older one gave me a nod. The kind that says, Okay. I see you.

And that was enough.

Because maybe self-improvement isn’t a mountain you climb in a single day. Maybe it’s a hallway you walk down one light switch at a time.

One small act. Repeated.

The truth is, I don’t know how to save the world. I don’t know how to fix the systems or stop the suffering or silence the storms. But I know how to be kind. I know how to lace up my shoes and run when I don’t want to. I know how to hug my kids so tight they forget what they were mad about.

And maybe, in times like these, that counts for something.

Maybe becoming better isn’t about becoming great. Maybe it’s about becoming more human.

Softer. Stronger. More honest.

Maybe it’s about folding the laundry. Making coffee at home. Saying I’m sorry when I snap. Saying I love you when it’s awkward. Taking a run even when your legs say no.

Maybe it’s about writing a new Post-it note.

One that says, “Run today.”

And then doing it.